


Gods Die, But We?

by thedaffodilsaredead



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: grindeldore, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Drama, Drama & Romance, Everyone Is Gay, Family Drama, First Love, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Gay, Gay Disaster Albus Dumbledore, Gay Panic, Gay Sex, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, Idiots in Love, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Panic, Politics, Power Dynamics, Professor Albus Dumbledore, Requited Unrequited Love, Song: Wish You Were Here (Florence + the Machine), Undue Seriousness, Unrequited Love, Victorian Attitudes, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), Yearning Forever, and Lana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:05:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedaffodilsaredead/pseuds/thedaffodilsaredead
Summary: A series of letters exchanged between everyone's favourite victorian lover boys covering the time between Dumbledore's teaching years in Hogwarts, the Wizarding Wars until Dumbledore's death. I have actually worked really hard on this, so please give it a try.(Actual letters begin at chapter 7-8, in case you want to skip the previous ones.).





	1. Chapter 1

_Germany, 6th of September, 1926_

Dear Dumbledore,

We did not part on the best of circumstances, and I understand that an apology will not redeem me of my crimes. I only want to congratulate you on your new position, which you have desired for so long.

Much respect,

G.G.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hogwarts Grounds, 13th of September, 1926_

Dearest Grindelwald,

Thank you for your kindness. Teaching has been almost therapeutic, although I cannot deny that I miss action- which you are getting so much of. The students are not exceptional but they are quite interesting to observe. I do not forgive you, yet a correspondence will be appreciated. I hope this letter finds you well.

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore._


	3. Chapter 3

_Germany, 18th of September, 1926_

Dear Dumbledore,

Your last name sounds wrong both upon my lips and on paper. I understand if you wish for its continued use, but please do tell me- its mannerism is so very cold. If you do not mind you can use my first name as well. In all honesty, I am merely suggesting, do not take this the wrong way. Forgive me if I am being forward and acknowledging something you would prefer me not to.

You are right, I do get quite a lot of action. I am still trying to climb my way up the social ladder, of course, so it is limited. I am afraid things are beginning to seem dull, although a quite rich old lady and her grandson seem very charmed. This will work in my favour- watch out for the newspaper headlines. 

_Yours,_

_G.G._


	4. Chapter 4

_Hogwarts Grounds, 23rd of September, 1926_

Dear Gellert,

I was wondering how long it would take us to return to our usual manner of speaking. I am not at all offended, it would be silly to ignore the history between us or the familiarity it provides.

Congratulations on your new ministerial position. (Were we in another time I would dare to wonder what other position lead to you earning it, but forgive me for both the bold assumption and the horribly blunt words- it is very late and one looses sense of the proper ways to tell things.)

I am, as are you, still testing the boundaries of this correspondence. I hope it is not too unpleasant and that I am not taking too much liberty.

_Yours as always,_

_Albus Dumbledore._


	5. Chapter 5

_Germany, 30th of September, 1926_

Dearest Albus,

Were we in another time I wouldfiercely deny your statement, but you are, indeed correct. He was terrible and on the way to marriage. A very pathetic man, if you want my opinion, but as long as it got me to where I wanted I do not complain in the slightest.

Were we in another time I would pretend that you words did not intrigue me, or that they did not place a smile on my lips, or that they did not follow me until I drifted off to sleep.

_ Yours, _

_ G.G. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Hogwarts Grounds, 4th of October, 1926._

My darling Gellert,

I won’t admit it to myself or to you, but were we in another time I would be satisfied that you thought of me in the most intimate hours of the night, that I accompanied you, even briefly, even in spirit. My boy, you are the only thing that stirs my thoughts anymore.

Like a dark secret I carry you in the lessons, I teach those innocent boys with your image in my mind, I talk and I lecture but I am no better than the most desperate, plain women in the silly romance novels that I confiscate every now and then.

The thought of you weighs down on me like you once did on my body, like your hands touched mine, your sleepy head in the crook of my head, like your golden curls waved over my naked chest.

Golden, you were, and we were living the golden age in that other time, just before it became out golden tragedy.

_Faithfully,_

_Albus Dumbledore._


	7. Chapter 7

_Germany, 8h of October, 1926._

My_ Albus,_

I am so very desperate for the idea of us. Your pulse next to my pulse, your heart near mine, your blood in me: you are not just a secret, you are the past, haunting me, sirens singing and urging me to turn back and look, to touch, to get lost in memories. I fight, day by day, I defy it, I endure the torture. Were we in another time it wouldn’t be a torture, it would be a sensation, the greatest feeling, you and I becoming one again, in every single sense.

We were meant to be together, and we were doomed to be apart. Do I have any hope? Do I dare dream? Do I dare seek the truth? Do I dare disturb the universe? Do I dare defy the fates? No, Albus, my deadly darling, no. I have always been a coward, I have always fled, and you have always loved me even harder for betraying you. That is all we are, in the end, my tender heart, a betrayed man and a man who runs away. We collide in our dreams and in the spilling of ink.

_Thinking of you always,_

_G.G._


	8. Chapter 8

_Hogwarts Grounds, 13th of October, 1926._

My beloved Gellert,

Your name could stop death if said slowly enough. It could move mountains, paint the sky red and make the stars drip- bloody like Bluebeard’s key. Your name, darling, sacred, (unlike God); the sky may not be the limit but you are.

Oh I did love you, but love is such a common feeling, a whore thrown around, a word with no meaning whatsoever. How could I describe us? We were young, yes. We were lustful and golden, yes. We were doomed, yes. We were living in another time.

What is the past if not a ghost, twirling down the darkest paths of our minds and only rising in the surface to puncture invisible holes in our hearts? The things we do for bright futures and hollow promises…

What things would I do for you? What terrible deeds would perform? And, in the end, Gellert, my flaming sun, my light-bringer, my fallen, disgraced ager, my sinful saint, In the end you burnt me, cast me into the fire, you burned me on a bed of rose petals and cypress wood- the tree of our darkest Gods.

And as you set me ablaze, as the ash danced around me, as your figure was distancing, I prayed to you.

You and I - **_oh_** \- we are damned.

I wish someone could punish me for all my sins, but I only have myself for such a ghastly business. What’s my sentence- or am I already serving it? Is the maddening presence of your pulse in me the price I have to pay for all my sins? Will I ever be cleansed, purged? No, no, I don’t think I will.

A man who has sinned once will never be free of his ghosts. It is how things are. It is not an order but a humble plea: _Convict me._

_Eternally suffering,_

_Albus Dumbledore._


	9. Chapter 9

_Germany, 19th of October, 1926._

My darling,

Despite it all, life and friends and power and too many hobbies, man is lonely sometimes. All our efforts, all our great pyramids just below shining stars- why do you think the Egyptians built such tall pyramids? Was it not to distract themselves from their true purpose? Yes, yes, the pyramids, they were delightful masterpieces of architecture, not tombs. They were a monument of the slaves that did not matter and the rulers who did not graces. They were puncturing the sky, not reminding us of our mortality.

Sometimes, especially when left lone with my thoughts that keep running, (wild), back to you, I wonder what it would be like, to die, not in vanity or battle or secrecy, but to die, simply as the, plainly as a bug crushed underfoot.

I think to myself that we decorate death with so many things, so many concepts, so many reasons and solutions and situations and motives that it looses its true meaning, it becomes history: untrue, badly told, and, in essence, a piece of life, slanted.

Death can never be a simple thing as long as we are alive. How would it feel like, though? How would it taste? How would it smell? Wet earth and flowers, or would it be rain and cocoa? Repulsive stink or the most delicate perfume? Hard wood or stone or soft feather pillow? Silk or wool Chocolate cake or lemon pies or burnt food or ht soup? Chirping birds or water boiling? Distant murmurs or wasted lives or nothing at all? I have no answer, no thought, not even a suggestion, not a mere, passing guess. Death is what we make of it.

_Yours as I always will be,_

_Gellert._


	10. Chapter 10

_Germany, 27th of October, 1926._

My most precious love,

What shall I do to grant a sight of you? I ponder this very question, discovering the lengths I would go to, the crimes I am prepared to commit. What if I transfigured myself, what if I infiltrated the ministry, came to your precious school and pointed a badge more powerful than your dignity? Oh, what if I handcuffed you to a chair, pinned you down with my fake authority- isn’t it strange, what dark, dark perversion the law covers up? And I wonder, how long would it take you to realise it was me? Or would you not at all? Oh, darling, what unspeakable things I’d do to you if you were under my control.

There, powerless, in a sealed classroom, the bright sun illuminating every hidden corner of your body, presenting you to me, ready for me. Would you enjoy it? I think you would, for you have always liked a little bit of danger, a small risk, curious eyes staring as I claim you. I had realised the effect it had on you, even then, how it hardened you when they whispered about us, when they were aware of everything we did behind closed doors- possibilities of corruption and secrets, deadly and arousing, twirling before our eyes in the summer breeze.

All the ways in which I would touch you, all the times I would in to abuse your lips, thirsty for the reality of your taste on my tongue. How I would trail paths down your naked body, quick licks around where you needed me badly- no, Mein Leibe, I will not satisfy you at first. I will enjoy your torture, your need for me, I will look deep in those blue eyes of yours as tears of shame and longing roll down your cheeks and I will whisper the darkest words in the crook of your neck until your desire rushes uncontrollable through you, body shuddering, unable to contain yourself.

Then, at the rim of your demise, I shall grant you every favour you have ever asked me to, take you to the stars, pound inside of you, touch you were you most need me to. Only then will we finally be the same, you and me; one.

We wouldn’t be, of course. We can never be the same except of in these sacred moments. Back then we liked to think we were equals, but I always knew, even though you were -and are- oblivious to it. I am no match for you. This blood pact is the only thing keeping me alive.

This blood pact and a a secret. The secret of your guilt. Oh, but you want to learn, don’t you? Tell me, Albus, how many nights have you thought of the answers? Of me? Of the past? Or is it every single day, as my blood pulses through you, a reminder of how lustful you were, of what happened, how you yearn for me and- and who did it. Who did it, Albus?

Death and I- the best of friends.

Guilt and you- the most trusted acquaintances.

You and I- intimate lovers marked by a shared past that haunts us both still.

_Yours as ever,_

_G.G._


	11. Chapter 11

_Hogwarts Grounds, 16th of November, 1926_

My darling Gellert,

It's one of those cold winter nights where the absence of your warm body next to mine becomes a frantic sensation, driving me mad. I miss your presence like one misses the dead- quietly, steadily, and then in apocalyptic waves of nostalgia. Once more, I am sinking inside a sea of regret and doubt- they have become my constant companions, they fill my thoughts, flood my mind, a reminder of my crimes, of my recklessness. It is almost just as always, and yet to-night the walls of my small office seem to be closing in, tightening and tightening like a thought spiral that cannot stop finding new flaws, new awful parts in myself, new dark corners in my mind and altered memories.

One can only write at such instances- the power of words is the single antidote to the immense sadness of the soul. I can only write to you with such freedom, you have always been the only man to whom I could admit defeat- defeat of spirit, of body, of soul, of life. I am unwell, dear Gellert, and yet you keep me company, whether that be by reading my words and stir my agony or by allowing me to feel the soft hum of your blood in me. The fire that burns in my room illuminates the misery of the quiet desperation that currently is my life. These are Thoreau's words if I am not mistaken. "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." And, despite my hopeless protests, I have become like the rest of men- which I am ashamed to admit, especially to you and your infamous greatness.

Although, and that perhaps is the worst part of my shameful declaration, it is not as scary as I once thought it to be, to wander in the castle's chambers with the beautiful crackling fires and feel like a corpse that is alive by mistake- for that is what I am when I am not myself, and I am only myself when I am near you. There's a comfort to it, though, as strange as that might sound to you, my dear. My life has become an endless waiting for something to change, for anything, really, that could break the cycle, that could remind me what it is to have a purpose in this damned world. Sometimes it seems beyond saving, all the crimes, all the tragedy, all these unnecessary things and the war that is approaching. I do care, deeply, for you and for the innocents- such different things to care about, since one kills the other. I read the newspapers and watch you slowly sinking your claws deeper into Europe, just like you once sank them in my skin. You walk closer to your goal day by day, and I see your followers, blinded by you.

Were we in another time I’d tell you the pure truth: You are the light, you are the sun itself, Gellert. And I, just like all of them, walked towards you, butterflies blinded by your eternal shining- but your flames burned my wings and I fell. We all fall in the end, away from you. I can see the desperate hope in their eyes as they call your name, they scream it, the name of God himself, the name of the one and only saviour. Yes, you are indeed the sun, my darling. They try to hold onto you, shreds of hope, shreds of reality mixed with memories, but the fire burns them all away. I cannot blame them, of course- I am in no position to do so and never have been. I followed you as well when I was young and reckless. I came closer than the others, that I will dare to admit. I breathed the air you breathed, I felt your skin on mine, I felt your touch in my soul, I felt your heartbeat in my heart and the softness of the golden locks of your hair as they tangled around my fingers. I learned, perhaps too well and surely too late, that behind the light that shines around you there is darkness and anger and a lust for power unlike any other. Dangerous, deadly, desirable.

Through the years I have felt many thing for you, but I have never stopped yearning for your company- it was never reassuring, you kept me on the edge of my feet and twirled me around and danced to the melody of our hearts. I don’t know why I enjoyed you so much, why I will always seek you, because -there is no need in denying it for you know it already- still, if you were to knock on my door, right now, in this stormy night, I would kneel before you and the throne of fire that you rightfully own. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts, as you perhaps have read in the newspapers. It is not too difficult, and I have time for all the other things I long to do. The students are not innocent but they are pure- which is very precious thing if you consider it. You can see it in their eyes- lovely things, unspoiled, unsuspecting. They have never known the darkness of the world or, even worse, its light.

I will admit that sometimes it feels weird, being trapped in the walls of this castle. It's a prison, you know, it weights down on me. It feels heavy, too, trying to be ordinary. I need to breathe your breath and feel your skin brush over mine. At least as I lay in bed at night I think that whoever touches you, whatever you have done, wherever you are, we are still sleeping under the same stars. And I do not know why, but this thought is oddly comforting, although a bit juvenile, and a bit possessive, and a bit silly- and yet, you cannot be owned by these lovers, you cannot be owned by the stars, or by me, or by your guilt. You and I, my Gellert, we both are owned by our past.

_Yours, as ever,_

_Albus._


	12. Chapter 12

_Austria, 20th of November, 1926_

Albus,

Where do I even begin? The crowds scream and then fall suddenly quiet. Every time I beat them down with my words, every time they follow me as if my voice is a song they can't help but listen to on repeat. I am high, it feels like a thousand orgasms. Again and again. They cheer and I talk, I just talk. They obey. I could have formed a dictatorship last afternoon. All it would've taken would be one word from me, and they'd be ready to kill. I am drunken with my success. I am drunken with the feeling of absolute control over the crowds that follow me. Of course, I can't feel it, the power of my words. I never could, you know that. I have always hated writing these speeches.

They seem strange to me, but the result is what makes me crave for more, leaving me stranded. You should have seen them, oh you should have seen the way they look at me as if I am the pouring rain that falls on a dessert. They are desperate, in a way, and that makes them powerful. I can feel it, Albus. A storm is coming and I am the lighting and they are the thunder that follows me. Look up in the skies of Europe, the dark clouds have already started hiding the sun. I am getting closer. It is ecstatic, the feeling. I am drunken with bliss and the illusion of eternal power. Sometimes I turn around and expect to find you standing there, smiling at me, your eyes lit up and your face shining with the same joy you once had. But you are never there, Al. And it makes me crash down every time. My life is a rollercoaster, I am ruling the whole world and the next moment I fall crumbling at your feet, begging for the simple words that would mean you have forgiven me. It is chaos, what I will bring with me. I will make the oceans drip with blood, I will paint the stars black and I will illuminate them again.

I first tasted the revolution in your passionate kisses, in your lips as they pressed down upon mine, and you know as well as I do, (although you will not admit it), that once upon a distant summer we built this world together. I know what you will say. "I was young." Oh yes, Albus, you were. And yet if right now I pushed you in the mattress of my bed and let you feel me again you will once again let me sink deeper inside of you. Deny it, Albus. I dare you to deny it- deny that I own you. You are my price, are you not? I'm going to burn this world and I'm going to sink it in the storm I will pour upon it. And then there will be peace, and you will be with me again. I promise you, when this hell is over I'll hold you in my arms again and you'll listen to my heartbeat and I'll kiss every inch of your body until you yield to me. Albus, you are what I am fighting for- never forget this. P.S. That summer we were laying under a blooming tree with pink flowers that fell on your hair and you very shyly asked me if I liked you. I did. Were we in another time I’d tell you that I do. I do like you and you should know that I'm still afraid to say the other word. I don't think I'll ever be able to say the other word, even when I'm by myself- much less when you are near me.

_Liking you a bit, _

_G.G._


	13. Chapter 13

_Hogwarts Lakeside, 27th of November, 1926._

My dearest Gellert,

The newspapers mention your name every second sentence. Is this what you wanted? Every time my friends turn to look at me. "You knew him, right?" Did I? I wish you were here to simply answer this question. Did I know you? I hope your response is negative, Gel. Because if I did then I fell in love with a monster, a criminal, a madman. I am no better than you if I knew you back then. I am convinced the clues were there and I was simply too blinded by the idea of you to open my eyes and see them.

It was a mistake, I knew that before. But I didn't know that a simple mistake of my youth would become a living nightmare. I was young, that is the only thing I can say to defend myself. But what about now? Why does my heart still flutter every time I hear your name, why does my body respond eagerly to your photographs scattered across the pages of the newspapers?

I am not guilty of once loving you as I am guilty of loving you still. I am ashamed to write these words, looking back at my letter with the nice handwriting that you always adored- I hate the words I am writing.

My handwriting is neat and calligraphic- unlike yours, that seemed to be running, escaping the page, bending so forward the letters collided with each other.

Recently I stumbled upon a study on handwriting. It explained how the more forward the letters bend the more of a futurist is the person. And I laughed because a) the study was oh-so-right and b) I recalled the millions of jokes about 'bending forwards'.

My laugh turned into a frown. I hate it when this happens. Gellert, I need to beg you to stop (pun-intended although I'm anything but kidding). Please, my darling. This is not your ideal revolution, this is not our vision, this is not the future that you will present to humanity. This is a plain, raw and unforgivable crime. Were we in another time I’d admit that I fell in love with a criminal, knowing, in my heart of hearts, what he was.

_Love,_

_Albus._


	14. Chapter 14

_Berlin, 30th of November, 1926._

_Al,_

The greatest mistake I ever made was promises. Promises are strong and heavy like oaths, I have come to realise. And oaths are promises we are forced to keep. Our blood reminds me this, every heartbeat is a repetition. You regret it now, or you have in the past. You’ve cursed upon your youth and the way you stood there and watched our blood spin and twirl until it became one, your hands clasping mine. I know you have, because I have too- but I always end up seeking it out for comfort. I suppose I am sentimental about these things.

The papers won’t stop and they are surprisingly loud for simple pieces of parchment. The news they deliver matches the black and white of their print, my dearest. They say I am a criminal these days, throw the words around like they’re things to play with, careless children kicking grenades, hoping they’re too old to explode. They say I lied. I say lies are the promises we'd like to keep, but can’t. They say I hypnotise with my phrases and turn people mad, but I am not the Devil, I swear: I am a mortal and I miss you.

Love is a promise as well, since this seems to be the topic that won’t leave my mind. It is the greatest promise and I made it to you. Perhaps it's the only one I'll keep, in the end. The vial of our blood troth hangs near my chest, and I brush my fingers over it every time the voices in my head scream louder than my drugged conscience. Were we in another time I’d reveal you my thoughts, as they are, as they torture me. Albus, what the hell have I done? It was in me, was it not? The lust for power. I know that this was not my dream, but I'm not such an idealist anymore. All I ever wanted was a magical world, everything drowned in the golden beauty of spells and enchantments. All the creatures and the muggles, slowly, breeding with us, magical as well. The universe would be soaked in the perfection that is magic and equality and freedom. Literature, architecture, art. A world as perfect as can be. Everything. The system, improved, revised, renewed. A world ruled by us- you and I and our love, that will embrace us forever.

Forgive me, I am rambling. I am slightly drunk and I’ve only woken up from a dream into a miserable reality. I know that I am lying to all the people who follow me and wipe tears pf their cheeks after every speech. Whatever I said, it cannot be done. I can try- I will try. I will fight for the idealism still left in me, and my crimes are justified only by the romance that lies around the idea of love, magic, and yes, I will say it, _power_. Because fewer things are more romantic than power- particularly the power of your hands as you held me down and pounded inside of me.

Forgive me for my crimes, forgive me for breaking your heart, forgive me for sleeping with others although their name sounded wrong on my lips, and on many occasions I uttered yours. Forgive me, although I do not deserve it. Believe me, although I am lying.

_G.G._


	15. Chapter 15

_11th of December, 1926._

My sweet boy,

I mark the passing of time in two phases, the first, where I miss you terribly, and the second, where I miss you in the most plain, human form of grief. I have been missing you throughout all of my life, I realised I missed you before I even met you. My life began the moment I met you and was scared the moment I lost you and after the latter follow all the years during which I have missed you. Perhaps I don't miss you as much as I need you. It is a selfish way to miss someone, I think. I hate it, that I crave you more than I miss you.

Should I blame myself? I don't know. Maybe I should. Maybe I should feel bad for craving you although you are... Who you are. I don't miss the younger you, I am not nostalgic, I am not regretting. I simply want you, to be with you, the man that you are (and perhaps have always been). I need to have you, with me,beside me, near me, inside me, again.

I wonder whether I should blame myself for what I feel, people say that I am an intelligent man and intelligent men are not usually foolish enough to fall in love.

Of course, I am not afraid of love, not even the idea of it. I am afraid of my love for you, specifically. You are what will ruin me. You were poison and I would drink you up once again and I would die again for you, I'd die the sweetest death.I'd also drink you up for another reason but that is not suitable, I think.I'd like to say a whole more to you, but I am too scared that saying it would make it true. I'd like to finally admit the series of crimes I have committed, I'd like to admit that you have never been a criminal, only a lover whose return I crave. I should be brave, I should have the courage to tell you the truth. The unbearable truth is that the truth is unbearably sad.

Sometimes I think of me, of how I'm a goddamn coward (but then again so are you.) 

My boy, my darling, you are everything to me.

_Only one regret (and it's not you),_

_Albus. _


	16. Chapter 16

_20th of December, 1926._

_A, _

The summer sun melted all my cares away, and now what remains is the distant memory of you and your soft sweet lips that are made of clouds and passionate desire. You had always been a rather feminine boy. Of course, those are all socially constructed. But you did enjoy strolls in the woods, picking daisies and reading long, sad novels- especially while complaining about the weather and contemplating the mystery of love. I accompanied you at first, and felt quite responsible for you- Albus, you seemed so fragile, so boyish, so very very innocent. You were not. Like many things, you were anything but what you seemed. Smoke and mirrors, that was what drew me to you. Closer and closer. And then, a grand finale. A clear sky and a first kiss, a daring idea and a graveyard, a shining sun and a pair of blue eyes that could suddenly and inexplicably darken.

I remember now, upon this lonely winter, us back then. And it seems as if we were otherworldly. The sun was different, it shined in a way that made things golden, it shined in a way that made you look like the angel of fire. The trees waved to us and the birds sang, praising us, our future. Time had stopped that summer, if only for a few weeks. We held each other beneath another sky, the fields and the green hills were painted by us, you and I, young gods. All of the universe belonged to us, your breath on my neck, your hands on my body, your blood on my blood, your soul in mine.

The world owed us a favour and it was repaid all summer long into a frantic dance of emotions. It was all too beautiful to last, too ephemeral to be true, too ours to be loyal. Things are different here in Germany. It is cold like a corpse. Without you it’s even colder and the war is getting closer. And then, it’s going to be inevitable. Things will darken, eyes will turn to glass, hearts will freeze, time will bend and break.

That summer so long ago will dissolve in the cold heart of the unstoppable and inevitable winter, these memories will be trapped in tears I never will shed. Albus, oh darling Albus, now, upon this cold that freezes to the bone, now, upon this ice that shall not melt, now, upon this winter of our discontent- whatever can warm us if not our anger?

_Liking you, just slightly,_

_G.G._


	17. Chapter 17

_28th of December, 1926._

_Gellert,_

Our mistake, (allow me to call that and know that I do not regret it), was not simply making a promise. Maybe we still wouldn’t have broken it, but we’ll never know because we did not just make a promise like all silly, love-blinded teenagers do, we mixed our blood and bonded our souls at the dying breath of our eternal love. That summer is going to last forever. I can see it even in winter, (Hogwarts is covered in snow, absolutely lovely), the rays of that sun are still bright in my office, it follows my steps, the breeze isn’t that of frost but it smells like flowers and forests and the sea and your golden hair. In moments, it remains, it’s a summer that will not end, will not leave me. I’m not sure I want it to, but I have certainly wished for it to do so, sometimes. You haunt me, Gellert- you haunt me more than ghosts do, more than the past, more than my sins.

Well, I am tired of talking of guilt- you have heard me one too many times; how tiring I must be. Your crimes stain the morning sun. But I _love_ you. You never liked that word, always ranted on about how it’s too common, used and thrown about so that it’s lost all meaning- except when I say it to you I mean it, just like the village-girl means it as she minds the sheep- except her love is pure, harmless, and my love kills. You do, don’t you? Plenty of those aurors and those innocents- I should be able to hate you by now, but how the heart plays tricks on us.

I don’t have anything to say, Gellert.I’ve written it all before, displayed it on paper for you to examine and weight and plan and scheme. One grows tired of all these elaborate machinations after awhile- _oh_, if only we could get over our intellect. But since this is a letter and not a whisper against your naked body, it seems we have yet to manage that. I want to taste you again. Out of spite for the ministry, if nothing else- they’ve been all over my head lately: if I fight you, if I oppose them, if… Pestering all my ex-students and all my ex-lovers and all my ex-lives, and I would as an act of rebellion, have you fuck me on the mahogany table of the minister. A political statement more than an act of desperation.

_Albus._

_P.S._

I’ve been intensely thinking about kissing you. How would such a situation occur? What would the feeling be? It hasn’t left my mind, I’m supremely distracted all the time, fantasising the sensation of your lips upon mine. I am a fool, Gellert. Is this another of your games? Am I just a pawn? God, you know, you make me a traitor.

_P.P.S._ Merry Christmas. 


	18. Chapter 18

_7th of January, 1927._

My boy,

Happy New Year. When will you respond to me? Or was I right, and this was simply one of your grand schemes? I cannot see its purpose- I feel desperate and I am getting old. You will make me mad and paranoid, and then you will tell yourself that you have broken me. Gellert, please, why this deathly silence?

_ Albus._


	19. Chapter 19

_16th of January, 1927._

_G,_

I’ve been reminiscing the past more than usual, (for I am well past appropriate). I eat apple pies sprinkled with cinnamon and wait for spring, and I drink my tea and pretend all the newspapers don’t vomit words and slurs near your name, don’t turn you in a villain painted with black ink over sugary paper. Even the kids say your name, fearful and slow, with every syllable buying their way into the world of the adults- how informed they are, united against a fairy-tale evil. Elphias smiles with that signature, annoying way he has -you always disliked him, didn’t you?- and I can see the hurt behind his eye; the other week he said “You still feel for him, don’t you, Dumbledore? I knew I lost you the first time you mentioned his name in a letter, you pushed all the other words away so you could savour the way it looked, I knew I lost all your affection then, later I knew I even lost your pity,” and I told him to have another slice of apple pie and stop torturing me, please.

But he is right- that is what bothers me most, the truth in his words, what we did, how we touched; it’s undeniable. The flavour of my youth is the taste of you as you came softly beneath me, of your lips as I took them under the summer sun. I have a mirror of desires and you are the only thing in its silver- not as a boy, but as the man that you’ve become, looking at me, daring me to reach you. I raise my hand and trace the ghost of your body, your fingers follow mine like a dark reflection I will never acknowledge. And then you lean back to a silver, sparkling beyond and tilt your head ever so slightly, a smile haunts your lips, and I know that you know; of my thoughts, of my sin, of my future.

I’m sorry. Your time is precious and mine is a waste of life- all life is a waste without you. I’ve been thinking about it, you know, wondering what you could change, if I could ever stand by your words again- and you haven’t said a word all the while- how you taunt me, Gellert. I don’t know what I will do- I feel like going mad in this castle. Confinement, and all this ministry brutes looking around my soul, searching for entertainment. Those blasted bracelets around my hands, I can feel their prying eyes on me- I can’t move, I can’t breathe- I suffer alone, and not a word from you for weeks on end- but still, I consider what I knew I would, if I felt you again, even from such a distance. Oh, it’s pathetic. You won’t even need to seduce me, Gellert. I’ll come to you quiet as a lamb.

_Your beloved,_

_(at least I hope so)._


	20. Chapter 20

_24th of January, 1927._

_Mein Leibe,_

Forgive me for not responding- you said it yourself, though, it was a deathly silence. That damned wand has been giving me trouble. It startles like a live fish in my hand, sometimes. I hear it call, the blood has oozed into the cracks of the wood, I hear it boil and beg me to shed it, it is hungry, it craves more. There is something primal in the core of its wood, something dark that scares one at first, but in later time it is recognised within one’s own self. And I am not a monster, unfortunately. If I were I would not love you still.

Sometimes I almost convince myself that our whole affair was but a moment of warmth, an intensity, to break the slow sunburn hours of that summer- I built it up in my heart until I believe it, for a moment, and then I hear the sound of a sift ringing that becomes louder and louder, until it is your pulse, maddening, louder than my own, reminding me of how human you are, how alive, both you and I, how desperate. And you are not a hero just like I am not a villain, Albus, in your own heart I hope that you admit it; you and I, the thing that never stopped- yet how it seems now, how we treat it, whispering, pens scratching at the dead of night, secretly we regard it, hiding it behind other words, working our way round it like hungry predators, a sin made of glass. My heart beats quieter when I think of you. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Souls and loves; fragile things.

_Gellert._


	21. Chapter 21

_2nd of February, 1927_

_My secret,_

I see no words for all that I said- and perhaps it is better that way. Something had come over me -and it is there still, though I fight it- but pay no attention to all my desperate sayings. These are maddening times.

I would like to write you a sentimental letter, but the ministry will be visiting soon. They have lost all their humanity- I am discussed on trial more than you! But I am tired of all this- sometimes I feel as if I have lived my whole life already, then I remember you and I are still, well, still at large.

_Yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore._


	22. Chapter 22

_11th of February, 1927_

_A,_

I am well aware of what you said. But, my darling, dearest boy, you’ll never do such a thing. You and I; we are the most dangerous kind of cowards.

_G.G._


	23. Chapter 23

_20th of February, 1927_

_My darling Gellert,_

When I was a child I heard suspicious noises coming from the church on one particularly dark night and I remember running as fast as I could, arriving at the priest’s house out of breath, knocking on the door madly. “What is wrong, my boy?” He asked. “Someone- in the church,” I panted. I could hardly put a sentence together, the air was forced out of my lungs and my face had grown red and a feeling was burning my stomach. It must’ve been a cleaner, or an illegal affair or some animal. Nevertheless, the priest patted my shoulder and smiled kindly. I was shaking from fear. His wife brought me a glass of water. He smiled at me and knelt down, whispered in my ear. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said softly, “But at nights that are cold and deep we let the backdoors of churches open so that the saints can come in.” My eyes widened in surprise. “It’s a secret all priests keep,” he informed me. “I won’t tell anyone,” I told him, taking the matter seriously. He run his hand playfully through my hair and I walked home along a pitch black road out of an old dream.

It was years later that I heard noises coming from that same church and ran, pulling my wand out and asking who the hell was there and what was all that mess about. I remember you running out of the place where they kept the documents and saying that you’re looking for a grave, and I knew, somehow, instantly, that you were something otherworldly. As I saw you there, (I can admit it now, unafraid of what you might think of me), with your golden hair and your ice blue eyes and the lean figure of your body standing at the sacred space surrounded by a storm of ancient papers- My love, I thought you were a saint- perhaps I still haven’t convinced myself otherwise. Gellert, you are named after one of these strange German saints, are you not? I hope they accompany you to wherever you are going, because I cannot. I hope something god-like stands with you in the great abyss, because I am a coward and I am a fool and I regret too many things to be truly brave. I hope your saints follow you to hell.

P.S. I cannot tell you more. Time is slipping away day by day and I’ve began to fear oblivion again.

_Devotedly Yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a real memory I have, by the way. Suitably modified. And to think I wasn't going to mention my life...  
Please leave a comment and tell me if you liked it :) Also, I know the world's going through a horrible time now, so stay safe everyone, and don't lose hope- life always finds a way to drag on.


	24. Chapter 24

_Germany, 12th of March, 1927._

_My (only) consolation,_

Things have been lonely. No, not things. They remain faithful to their nature, unlike us. It is time to admit I have been lonely. Very lonely- not bored, not angry, not better than the others, not special, not sensitive, not strange- lonely. So lonely. God, I’ve been so alone and so lonely and it’s been too long since I’ve felt understood. Sometimes I stare out of the window in Nurmengard and mumble that I’ve never been truly understood, not even by you- no, I don’t like the bitter old man I am becoming. But we are young, still, though perhaps not young enough to feel the pleasure of company. I think of the way time felt with you, the way it broke its linear pattern and became light in your hair and the colour of your eyes and the sound of your heartbeat when my lips made it quicken. I think, Albus, that -to a dangerous extent- we understood each other very well. Other people experience love differently, with slight alterations, but you and I had an understanding before we had feelings, we had a nodding of the head before we had desire. And, even now, I have passion, I have desire, I don’t have an understanding.

It is your fault, Albus. It wouldn’t hurt so much to be alone had I not felt the sweet beauty of your company. I could be a slave to myself forever had I not known freedom, I could live in the dark and think nothing of it had I not seen divine light, soft light, falling in strange shapes across your naked body when you slept, in the morning, in my bed, in my arms- do you remember it, the life we could have lived? Not forever, not forever. Youth is an idea that dissolves- but how vivid everything about you is, and how much it tortures me- to hell with reality, I don’t care, no, when we were young we knew everything and we could conquer the world if we liked. There was such infinite time.

And I think of it again, Albus. The loneliness that followed me. You turned around at the sound of its footsteps. They were familiar. It was not perfect company, it was the same loneliness, mine and yours, the same feeling of absence that connected us. But the studious men wipe their glasses and say ‘love built on absence isn’t love at all.’ But they will never love, they will never love like we did. They will say we were too young to know what we were doing, we wanted an escape, not each other. They will be wrong. How dreadful, that society has come to this. Reasoning with emotions, making desire fit into boxes. How neat it all is. Problems are classified, not solved. No-one knows better than youth.

I know you must scold me. What a sensitive, oblivious, delusional mad-man have I become? How dare I write such silly letters that mean nothing and aren’t practical at all? I must have some nerve, going on and on about you and me and our memories, when I know perfectly well that they are unreal, the idea of us, the reality of us, we never happened like we think we did. Will you tell me that, my Albus? No, you are a lonely man who sits in his office and thinks of the past and regrets. Regrets forever. Regrets pile up like those plates filled with small, silver fish.

You sit, you stir your pensive, you tell yourself you aren’t worth affection. I sit, I order executions, I tell the public we must rise. One of us must be crazy. Oh, and, speaking of crazy- how’s that old heart of yours doing? Last night I was peaceful but I couldn’t sleep, and I felt your blood beating so fast I was afraid something was wrong. It wasn’t the beat of desire or fear. What on earth was it? Tell me, put me at ease. That should be all. I will not keep you any longer. It is late here, I must quit writing to my past and go dream of something cold and golden.

_G.G._


	25. Chapter 25

Hogwarts Castle, 23rd of March, 1927.

My sweetest sensation,

I have thought of you so much it has become ridiculous. Every single word you write is treasure, I sit in my office and read it over and over and over again. The ministry is growing more annoying by the day, they’ve been going through my past, going through my methods here at Hogwarts. These are such hard times, I have began to grow fearful that our correspondence will be monitored, torn apart. I tighten the measures of security and hope you are doing the same. It is an old fear, is it not? Being found out. But more things have taken to underlining it, piling up, history and politics and the heaviness of memories. The fear remains, unaltered in its core- two boys tiptoeing around large, empty houses, holding hands and breaths and trying to keep their love a secret.

You talked of my heart? You were partly wrong and partly right. It was a combination. Desire to fear and fear of desire and alcohol. I was alone, thinking of you. The damned mirror which I’m trying to avoid still shows me your image and there is nothing to be done about that. So, here is your answer. I was thinking of what I might be unable to do to you because of…well, you know. It is foolish to repeat the same sentiments until I tire myself out.

Life has been trembling lately. And I’ve grown frustrated by everyone, all the people that are here, pilling up on top of one another, bickering and talking about their own problems, I’ve been feeling arrogant again, arrogant and young, feeling as if I’m above this mindless display of humanity. You’ll talk some sense into me, Gellert, won’t you? The bars of the great cage turn into shadows that slide against the castle’s walls. It’s been a stupid day. All my emotions go in circles, followed by my thoughts. I am angry, I am detached, I am sad, I am bitter, I am missing you. Again, and again. I’ve told you everything I had to say, I’ve had all the vividness of life laying beneath me, I’ve had the flickering sensation when your body grew hot against me. And now all that is left is regret and worn out emotions.

What more can I say, Gellert? I suspect, nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Silence, the silence of the room when you rushed out and left me alone, the silence of my whole life when I try to listen to your heartbeat inside my veins, the silence when my maddening desire tells me to kill you and kill my love. The silence when I look in the mirror and you look back at me and your eyes aren’t large, silver reflections but deep and meaningful. You know, in the mirror. That is what makes me want to scream. You know like you’d knew if you were here, you lean your head to the side and you look at me and you understand like no-one ever has.

P.S. Please, tell me that you love me. I need to hear it. I swear, I do. Please. Please. 

Yours,

Albus.


	26. Chapter 26

_Berlin, 29th of March, 1927._

_My Albus,_

Although I expected that at the doorway of my rise I’d either consider our future or study the murky details of our past, I was wrong. All I’ve been doing is thinking of you, interrupting myself in moments to wonder what you might be doing, where you might be, strolling across the dusty Hogwarts grounds, taking a turn near a corridor, sitting in the library or grading papers. I have concerned myself with the latter entirely too long, finally succeeded into constructing inside my mind; the exact movement of your arm, the way you’ll adjust your glasses after a while, how you’ll sigh and move through space.

Soon, I will begin my travelling. Italy, France, America, your lovely Britain, Spain, Greece- there are so many places I must visit. Looking out from Nurmengard and planning all the things that have to happen. And you? Where will you be, what will you be busying yourself with? I have taken notice of the ministry’s relentless meddling, don’t you worry. There isn’t a chance in the millions that our letters will be stolen and read by someone else, I transfigure them constantly and guard them with the essence of my heart that belongs to you.

You demand me to declare my love, saying you are in need of reassurance. What nonsense you talk my dear boy, how could you doubt my affections after all this time? I love you, of course. It is the most obvious thing about me, it slides to the surface of my existence, spreads over my heart, merciless. I love you like I shouldn’t. I stare out at the deep green hills and wonder whether we have no choice at all, whether the only way for love to survive in this age of aggression is for it to be unrequited, kept away, kept secret from what might pull it into unbearable reality. And then, I think it funny. For all our decelerations to the Fates, we’ve spent a lifetime trying to avoid them. Well, a little less than a life time. I always forget that you and I are young, I always think us old and sinful and beyond any salvation. Perhaps we are. Time will tell. Or not. Wouldn’t be curiously unsurprising, if Time didn’t tell anything at all, remained silent and angry until the very end, gave us no relief, no closure? I think I’d shake my head and mutter that I have foreseen it. But, you’d know, I’d be lying.

Now comes the string of terrible things. Will you hate me in the months that will follow? You must have seen the rallies that have already happened, you must have felt politics taint your life so much that it s unbearable. I will love you through all these crimes. But you? You are my only fear- and this is not about power. It never was about power between us. If you really sit down and think of it you’ll see it’s always been about some quiet, unhelpful understanding.

_Yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hozier said "Power is my love when my love reaches to me" and I was like...time to update.


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